


on paper bodies (we flirt with fire)

by pashmina



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, rbficexchange2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4643334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pashmina/pseuds/pashmina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt 1: "normally i like being alone but i would rather be alone with you"</p><p>With Clarke gone, the Delinquents are all watching him now, out of the corners of their eyes. Some are suspicious, others worried (Octavia, in proper Blake fashion, keeps watching him for some sign of <i>breaking</i>), and some like, Miller, are simply speculative, waiting for something to happen, waiting to see how their leader, their <i>king</i> (the one left, anyway) decides to act.</p><p> </p><p>And then, of course, there's the looks Raven gives him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on paper bodies (we flirt with fire)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [finnicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnicks/gifts).



> I'm still learning how to write these two, and this one is the first from Bellamy's POV - hopefully I managed to capture both and fulfill your prompt too!

 

As predicted, the Delinquents (Monty) and the Ark members (Abby) are not too pleased about Clarke's decision to leave. As Bellamy predicted, there is also a small but vocal minority (Octavia) who don't really care either way. Unfortunately, despite how much he likes to claim otherwise, Bellamy _cares_. He cares a lot.

Of course, he's partly concerned because Clarke is his friend, because she's disappeared off somewhere and he's worried she'll be hurt, because he cares for everyone that is _his_.

The larger part of his concern stems from the sudden onslaught of glances thrown his way. With Clarke gone, the Delinquents are all watching him now, out of the corners of their eyes. Some are suspicious, others worried (Octavia, in proper Blake fashion, keeps watching him for some sign of _breaking_ ), and some like, Miller, are simply speculative, waiting for something to happen, waiting to see how their leader, their _king_ (the one left, anyway) decides to act.

And then, of course, there's the looks Raven gives him.

* * *

There are guards at the blindspot in the fence he and the others had left through last time they went on an unofficial rescue mission. But Bellamy knows how to find a good hiding spot, and ducks into what is more or less a supply closet of old trash that _someone_ may find a use for. It's dark and a little chilly, but he's okay with that because at least he can sit and _think_ for a bit.

People are starting to hover and it grates on his nerves. He knows how to be charismatic, but it's really not his natural state. He's spent years learning how to become invisible, how to draw the least attention to himself and thus bring no attention to Octavia -- he's not really a people person.

Then again, neither is she.

He startles from his crouched state by the flap covering the entrance flung open and the muttered curses in a voice that's always just a little rough around the edges. He can hear the staccato beats of her walk.

"Damn it, shooter, this is my spot," is the first thing that comes out of her mouth. She looks at him with the same confrontational, righteous anger she always has and he nearly chuckles in relief.

"I can share."

She rolls her eyes. "It's not _yours_ to share."

He shrugs. She sighs.

He's not surprised when she settles beside him, proud that he manages to keep his hands by his side and restrain himself from helping her. Her jacket, more mud than red, touches his arm. He brushes some of the dirt off.

"Why are you hiding?"

"I'm _not_ hiding. I'm just tired of other people." Just one person, he thinks, but he doesn't press.

"Yeah, I know."

"No, you're hiding from _responsibility_. Heavy lies the crown and all that shit, right?"

He frowns.

"Fuck crowns," he says.

He doesn't lie his head on her shoulder.

* * *

He ends up back in the supply room, but she's already there, fiddling with something in her hand. When he sits, she hands him a lock with keys.

"This is for us." A pause, and he tries to read what exactly is happening behind her dark eyes. Still burning, still confronting. "Don't think too hard about it."

Bellamy rolls the elongated piece of metal in his palm, then tucks it into his shirt pocket. He leans his head back against some remnant piece of  _their_ ship and closes his eyes.

"I thought you went through this already. The whole lone wolf leader thing. Last time you enjoyed it," Raven says. He can feel her looking at him. He can always feel her gaze - it's too heated to not feel it. Sometimes, only sometimes, when he's feeling particularly classical, he thinks she's a a shooting star. A meteorite sent through space, burning itself up for an ephemeral moment of beauty. She'd hate that comparison. She's more resilient, and she doesn't grant wishes.

"Last time a seven year old girl killed an innocent boy." His eyes flick open to meet her stare. "I'm not so good without something to keep me in check."

"You mean some _one_ ," she snorts. He's about to protest -- Clarke wasn't  _that_ influential. "What would you have done without me to teach you how to lead, shooter?"

He grins.

"Don't give yourself so much credit."

When she smiles, one corner pulled a little higher than the other, he can feel something light in his chest, something unfurling, something melting.

"And yet here you are. Listening to me."

Yes. Here he was.

* * *

 

Miller listens to Raven, Bellamy realizes a few days later. All of them do (though Octavia will grumble a little more than the others - but much less than that time Jasper tried to step into the power vacuum). And it's not his pathos or Clarke's ethos. 

"You didn't realize she was the third in your triumvirate?"

Bellamy manages not to shrug sheepishly, though by the knowing look in Monty's eye he might as well have.

"Dude, Raven gets shit  _done_. And it doesn't hurt that she doesn't suffer existential crises, you know?"

And it's less a jibe at Clarke and more a jibe at him for hiding so much, instead of arguing with the Council. They can't expect much from an absentee leader, but they  _can_ expect the one who's there to  _do_ something.

"Yeah, I know."

"Plus, like, Wick likes her. And Kane likes Wick. I think. And Sinclair likes her. For a prickly person, she's really popular."

Bellamy laughs.

* * *

 

He's at the trash closet, again, cursing the way his fingers fumble with the lock and key that holds the flap secure. If someone really wanted to get in, they could, but it's symbolic. It's dark out, even darker in the mess of space junk.

He  _knows_ there's not nearly the number of levers in there that he's imagining. 

The uneven sound of Raven's gait reaches his ears and he's schooled his features into something resembling calm when she stalks in.

"I heard you thrashing around in your tent," she barks. "Some of us need sleep."

"I woke up. There were so many."

His voice is laden with guilt, though he's standing straight, shoulders up and chin high. Shoulders up and chin pulled down until he was level with her gaze, fierce and bright in what little starlight filtered through the entrance.

"You chose  _us_. You showed us."

And then she's kissing him --  _show them you care_ \-- and his hands are settling around her, and their teeth hit each other when he presses his thumbs into the dimples on her back. 

"I don't actually need this," he says because he cares, he cares so damn much. Her finger nails are edging around his waist and skirting up his back.

"Get this brace off me," she says because he cares, he cares so much and she  _knows_.

He's down on his knees, kneading the muscle above the locked contraption first and she's not a shooting star who grants wishes, but maybe she grants absolution instead.

* * *

 

"Oh my god, Bellamy. Stop romanticizing it," she tells him afterwards, settling her chin against his mop of hair. One of his hands is comfortably settled on the dip of her waist, the other hooked under a knee. The skin of her leg is soft, the hairs very fine, and the low hum in the back of her throat tells him she doesn't mind his calluses. Her cot is comfortable, in a way his will never be. Being the best mechanic (being a disabled mechanic) granted her a little bit of extra cushioning.

"But I feel so much better now."

"That's what sex does. Releases endorphin." Her voice is exasperated, but not annoyed.

"I thought you were a mechanic."

"Doesn't mean I don't know chemistry. How else am I supposed to make a bomb?"

His lips quirk up and he grazes his nose against her clavicle.

"Cute."

* * *

 

He's in the closet after lunch, a scrap piece of paper on his thigh and a sliver of charcoal dusting the pads of his fingers blacker than usual. Improvised speeches are his strength, but he knows he needs to be prepared if he's going to take on the Council regarding how to go about handling the excavation from Mount Weather. They can't keep sending Delinquents on suicide missions, they  _already_ did that.

"If I'd known you just needed to get laid to get your ass in line, I would have done that a lot earlier," he hears behind him, and she's standing there with a shit eating grin on her face. He feels so stupid for automatically wanting to smile back. 

"Sit down, Raven, and listen to this-"

She settles down beside him, her dirty red jacket touching his arm. She finds five ways to better his speech (show us you care, show them you don't), and berates him for not trying to use some of Clarke's words to get under Abby's skin and some of hers to get Sinclair on his side. 

He's not leaning on her shoulder, but he's leaning towards her and those smoldering, simmering eyes.

He thinks of Robert Frost and-

Bellamy's always preferred to perish in fire anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Prompt 4 (fight fire with fire by inklustt.tumblr.com)


End file.
